


Jupiter's Whore

by Cthulhu_Priestess



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Creepy Kylo Ren, Dark Reylo Anthology, Devotion, Dominant Kylo Ren, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Glove Kink, Hints of Twisted Devotion Kylo Ren, Kinky Rey, Kylo Ren Doesn't Like to Share, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo Wants Rey All to Himself, Kylo With Another Woman in the Beginning, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Sadism, Major Tease Kylo Ren, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsessive Kylo Ren, Rey Doesn't Like Sharing Either, Rey Finds Out She Likes to Watch, Rey Wants Kylo's Big Dick, Top Kylo Ren, Voyeurism, feisty rey, mild choking, not a threesome, stalker vibes, writer rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cthulhu_Priestess/pseuds/Cthulhu_Priestess
Summary: Rey doesn’t even want to go. Well, she does, but not because she likes extravagant parties in lush mansions where the elite get dressed up in their ritzy dresses and gossip over decadent champagne. Or at least, that’s the Sunday school version. She isn’t so naive to believe those rich bastards aren’t doing debauched things in the shadowy corners of their comely abodes for a second. She’s a writer. More aptly put, a smut writer… and this party has all the right connections to land her an actual spot on the bestsellers list.





	Jupiter's Whore

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** So this is my side account for darker Reylo content, namely creepy-vibe Kylo (or Rey). I had a lot of fun with this entry. Tried my hand at some light BDSM, which I've never tackled before. I hope I didn't bomb too badly. Enjoy! o/
> 
>  **My Entry for the Dark Reylo Anthology Event**  
>  **Themes:** Darklite Reylo / Devotion
> 
> And a massive thank you to [FinnReylo](https://twitter.com/FinnReylo) for both beta-ing and adding in supportive commentary! 💜

She’s going to kill him. Hell, she’s going to kill both of them. Send their conspiring asses to the pyre and watch them burn for getting her tangled up in this mess… but it _is_ a chance, isn't it? A chance to finally get her work recognized instead of slaving away in front of her aged computer and combating for her spot in some seedy porn mag only the bottom feeders can afford. Where is the money in that? 

The term starving author should really be a thing. 

Her eyes drift down to the elegant penmanship of the invitation in her hand for the thousandth time. Its solid thickness and laminated sheen are enough to make her boil with jealousy. If anything, she should be affronted by its presence in the mail, and she is— _to a degree._ What kind of pompous twat even sends out invites like these anymore? Has he not heard of email?

> _Kira Ferapont,_
> 
> _You have been formally invited to our monthly masquerade ball at the Supremacy. Please arrive no sooner than 9:00 PM. Supremacy address: 333 Upsilon Drive Coruscant, CA 25137. Also, please remember to dress accordingly._
> 
> _Host of the party,_
> 
> _Kylo Ren._

_Dress accordingly, huh?_ By that this host means obnoxious opulence in a feathery mask for his stupid soiree. And she's heard of Kylo Ren before, seen him in the magazines and newspapers. He had exploded on the scene about three years ago around the same time she'd been fighting to acquire her GED and hoping for a few scholarships to get her through college. It was a struggle, like everything else in her life, but all those countless articles and stories on the infamous Kylo Ren proved a valuable fuel for her resolve. 

A wealthy businessman, younger than most other senior businessmen would like, and a high ranking CEO of Dreadnought Industries. Not to mention an eligible bachelor with a prestigious family line in politics and education, so that’s _nice_. It definitely affects just how many stories are circulated, most of which are geared toward Coruscant’s overflowing pool of singles. Dreadnought Industries itself happens to be a conglomerate of various businesses all interwoven under a single, very powerful umbrella owned by Nolan Snoke. Several of these businesses also involve literature publication and fashion magazines, something Kylo Ren seems to take great pride in. 

This is not to say that Rey has ever deliberately paid much attention to Coruscant’s very own Bruce Wayne and it most certainly does not say she is jealous. More like it’s obnoxiously thrust in her face every second of every day. Kylo Ren, their poster boy of perfection meeting and greeting with all the important heavyweights of the Fortune 500. He has become a rooted fixture of the environment and nothing within this city moves without him.

But back to the two assholes who got her involved in this mess to begin with. Armitage and Paige, Armitage specifically. _The weasel_. Just because he works at CrypticStar Solutions, a business under Dreadnought Industries, does not mean he had to pull some favors in order to embarrass Rey to death. _Literally._

Tonight will be her last night on earth, she’s sure of it. After she likely makes a fool of herself in front of potential job offers, a.k.a. stuffy rich publishers, and then drowns herself in booze. Hopefully, they have booze. Finn owes her a night out to the cantina now that she thinks of it. And she hasn’t paid a needed visit to any fetish events with her muse as tapped as it is.

Rey’s eyes drift to her messy work desk, papers piled—no exaggeration—to the ceiling with endless sticky notes and balled up ideas she had meant to throw away, but had given up before her ass even left the chair. Her current novel hasn’t been touched in months and here she’s been hoping it would be her magnum opus. 

Writer’s block sucks.

Then, comes Hux with his master payback, albeit well deserved after the stunt she pulled at Hux’s bachelor party with the hooker, by gaining her an invitation from one of the city’s most elite party throwers in the most elite suburb of the city, Imperial. 

_Thanks… dick._

Despite her ornery attitude, she knows this could mean an end to her tireless nights reading refusal emails from pretentious publishing companies, it could mean actual money for her work instead of blood, sweat and tears being poured into trashy perv mags. This could mean a chance at the big leagues. As much as she hates to admit it she would be daft to pass it up.

So after a bit more belly-aching and sour expressions, she climbs into the dress Hux had delivered to her. Odd that he purchased her a dress to go with the invitation, but she considers it just more salt on the already chafed wound of her ego. The package had been sitting politely on her desk at Organa & Holdo Law when she’d gotten back from lunch with Finn, glistening onyx wrapped in a blood-red bow. Rey had been so livid she hadn’t even bothered to call Hux and chew his ear off. 

Her reflection stares back at her, so unlike herself. _At least it has straps_ , she mumbles inwardly. _And the color…_ Rey purses her lips. It looks surprisingly good on her. She twirls, allowing the skirt to flutter in a muted shimmer. Thanking Hux, though, is completely out of the question. She’d die first which, as she said earlier, is a foregone conclusion tonight. 

Most of her friends are not even aware of her moonlight hobby. Finn is the only one she’s ever told. He had even been kind enough to accompany her to these play parties acting as her _partner_ while she gathered research information in those smoky stage lights and heavy corridors. She remembers the first time someone asked her if she wanted to be collared. 

A scoff escapes her. 

The mere idea of it had infuriated her at the time, this random gentlemen—a total stranger, she might add—approaching and asking her such a personal question. Some things within the world of BDSM still leave her unsettled, even embarrassed on occasion, but the desire to learn more never abates. 

And if there is one thing she has learned about the lifestyle it is this: these types of partnerships require a great deal of trust. 

_Trust._

The exact reason Rey has maintained her distance from action and kept to writing instead. They say, of course, writing and doing are two very different things. She’s sure they are and writing has served her just fine, thank you very much. 

But it isn’t only the lack of trust in a partner, she knows. It is a lack of trust in herself. What would that kind of world open up in her? When she looked in the mirror, would she see the same person?

_“Morality is a narrow tightrope in the dark lost between two points. One day it will inevitably snap, one wrong step or another.”_

A line from her latest work-in-progress; in fact, the line that spawned the novel itself. It had come to her one evening while sitting out beneath the night sky and counting the stars, the city lights dimmed to a filthy yellow and the sickle moon like the grin of a devil. _Her devil,_ she had mused, only half joking. 

Shaking her head, Rey finishes getting ready and leaves her apartment at dusk. The invitation feels slippery in her grasp, sweat already dampening the minimal back of her dress as she rides the elevator down to the entrance lobby of her building. 

The drive takes a full hour-and-a-half, not including the twenty minutes minimum it takes her to find a parking spot along Upsilon Drive. The whole damn street is clogged with glitzy rides, Lamborghinis and Ferraris, Mercedes and limousines, and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t spot a 1954 Jaguar Roadster.

“Fuck me.” she sputters in awe. 

Rey has never been much to drool over the shiny toys of the rich and she isn’t about to start now. Getting out of her car, Rey attempts to blend with the trickling line of chic attire filing into the massive house. _The Supremacy._ More like a towering stack of stones overseeing the lesser homes in its obnoxious wake. Rey rolls her eyes. _So it’s as big as the papers say._ Not that she has ever paid much attention to Kylo Ren or his many palaces in the tabloids—she _hasn’t_ , but that’s hardly the point. 

She follows the stream of people up the steps and through the doors. Beyond them she walks into a world of hazy bronze lights and dahlia shadows, strung balustrades and hanging curtains of crystals. _Probably diamonds_ , her mind bites sarcastically. It’s all fairly overwhelming, especially with the converging scents of perfume and cologne, hints of lavender and sandalwood and cloying overtones of sweetness. 

She finds herself shuffled into a main hall the size of a football field—no exaggeration. It overflows with glamorous people and Rey all at once feels like a small land bird abandoned at sea, her mask weighing down her face and the sheer material of her dress sticky on her skin. 

What the fuck is she _doing_ here? 

_You’re supposed to be scoping out bigwigs to bait into publishing your trashy erotic stories._ Her mind replies sarcastically.

 _Like that’s going to be a walk in the park._ Another side of her snaps.

Groaning in frustration, she makes up her mind and forces her feet onto the main hall floor. It’s exasperating at first, circling the room with slow measured steps and an occasional smile to a passerby or a dancing couple, all of which are equally as anonymous as herself, but it soon grows tiresome. She loses count of how many laps she makes around the room, pausing at the bar and accepting a fluke of champagne before circling again, all the while her eyes more drawn to the curious murals painted on the ceiling than the people below it. 

They are dark renditions of the baroque era style with familiar places and faces, most of whom possess angelic wings. But it’s their faces, pinched or slack-jawed in a shared expression of doom that appears to create a pattern. Rey is so entranced by the frescos that she doesn’t see the man in front of her. She collides with him, spilling some of her champagne onto her dress.

He turns, lofty eyes glaring down a peskily broad nose. 

“I’m sorry!” she says quickly.“I didn’t mean to—”

“Next time watch where you’re going,” he interjects tersely and strides away, never giving her a second glance. 

Rey sighs. _Well, that was brilliant._ To top it all off now she has a dark splotch of alcohol on her left breast and she hasn’t even started to mingle yet. _Can the night get any worse?_

“Are you a shark?”

The voice makes her jump and she turns, meeting the mask of a gothic eagle. This particular mask is set atop a pair of expansive shoulders and unexpected _height_. Her eyes travel the stranger’s length, all the way from his black alligator loafers to the tips of the feathers sprouting from the crown of his mask. Unlike the other attendees, this man’s disguise conceals the extent of his face. All she is given are a pair of smiling lips and sharp black eyes. 

“Excuse me?” she asks.

His smile broadens, betraying a scant sliver of white. “You keep circling this room like you might die if you stop,” he says.

Rey frowns. 

If anything, this man is the shark. His gaze tells her all she needs to know because she’s seen that look before… in smoky hallways and hazy stage lights. The underlying thrill of power and dominion. It exudes from every stitch and pore of him like a cinnamon musk. 

“I dare to guess you’re a shark.” He eventually answers for her.

Rey, to conceal her momentary befuddlement, takes a sip of champagne and observes the room. “If I’m a shark, then this place is a dismal hunting ground.”

… which, honestly, is the truth. All these zombified richlings look about as fun as kicking around an empty paint can. 

He mirrors a sip from his own fluke. “Why do you say that?”

She’s being led. The question is a trick, but she cannot help herself. “These people are no more than a bunch of soulless mummies and gold-digging whores wrapped in pretty silk.” 

_Way to make a first impression, genius. Insult the very people you need to impress._

His lips break into a grin over the rim of his glass, the silver veins of his mask glinting like starlight. He leaves Rey’s statement to hang in the air, gathering weight like a millstone around her neck. She scowls at him, frustrated by this come-hither stranger and wishing she could see more than just his piercing eyes. At least he can’t see her entire face, either. 

“What’s your name, again?” she snarks.

“I didn’t give it.”

“Right…”

He glances along her body, openly assessing her appearance. Then: “Dance with me.” 

“What?” She blinks. 

Gloved fingers curl over her wrist and she distantly registers that he begins pulling her toward the dancefloor. They pass a server and he sets both his and her flukes atop their tray in a single flourish. She bristles at his actions and attempts to pull away.

“Listen I didn’t—”

“It wasn’t a request,” he remarks casually. 

Rey’s anger ticks up another notch and she tries a second time to extricate herself, but his hold only tightens and she swears she can see the corners of his mouth twitch. She has half a mind to jerk him around and slap that smirk so hard he bites those pretty lips right off, but she thinks better of it, reminding herself _why_ she’s here. 

One potential publisher is already pissed. She doesn’t want to risk another. Though she highly doubts this cocky bastard owns a lowly publishing company. He strikes her as someone more ambitious than that. 

They reach the center of the floor when he spins her around to face him and circles his arm at her waist, a little lower than she’d like, while lacing their opposite hands together. Speaking of hands, his are huge, dwarfing her own in slick black leather and he doesn’t just smell like cinnamon... He smells like burning cedar, too. The combination makes her body tingle. 

“So how did a little street mouse like you get into a party at the Supremacy? Hired escort? One of the many _daughters_ accompanying their _daddies_ to this sham?”

Heat gathers in her cheeks. _Cutting straight to the chase, huh?_ She matches the intensity of his stare with fire. “Careful. One of these old men will be you someday.”

He glances up at the mural while twirling them fluidly through the crowd, his reply almost bored. “I doubt I’ll live that long, Miss Ferapont.” 

Her breath stops. _Did he just…_ “How do you know my name?”

Stygian eyes drift lazily back down to her, his mask casting strange and alluring shadows across his skin. She notes the prominent beauty mark above his mouth, how it temporarily breaks the illusion and she wonders at it, thinking perhaps she has seen it before. Then, it’s gone, like a lark on the wing. 

“I have heard of you from one of my business associates. Armitage Hux. Do you know him?” he asks. 

Her blood boils at his mention, but she answers evenly. “Yeah. He’s a friend.”

“He works for CrypticStar Solutions, a subsidiary specializing in military technology under Dreadnought Industries.”

“That’s right.”

“Impressive. You must have done him a pretty big favor for him to get you an invitation into this place. You sure he’s just a friend?”

She bulks at the insinuation in his tone. “If by favor you mean getting him the first date with his _wife_ , then yeah. I’d say that’s a major favor.”

The stranger is grinning again, dipping her low as his encompassing hands skim her sides. “Ah. I did hear he had recently married. Are you?”

She gapes at him, momentarily addled by his nearness. “Am I what?”

“Married?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.” Rey’s cheeks flare. 

Ignoring her rude reply, he promptly rights her on her feet and launches back into the waltz. “That color looks devastating on you.” he murmurs, referencing the midnight blue of her dress.

She glances down at the spot of champagne on her breast, noticing with a flash of horror the defined line of her nipples under the overhead chandelier. Red travels down her neck as she dares a glance up at the stranger and finds his stare fixated on her chest, a wayward tongue darting across his upper lip. 

“A writer with talents such as yours doesn’t belong in the back of some gauche smut mag. You only need to make the right connections.” He pauses as he leans into her ear, breathing labored against her skin. “I can help you. I can get you the access you need.” 

Rey shudders despite herself. “What would you know about my writing?” she demands.

A tongue— _his_ tongue—paints a delicious hot line up the side of her neck. She mewls softly in surprise, her body pressing instinctively into him. He’s so close, so enveloping with his broad shoulders and towering height, and as he pulls back his stare pins her to the spot. She scarcely realizes the song has already ended. All she sees are those velvet black eyes and she thinks—she _knows_ they will be the death of her. 

His tips his head and her heart stops, sure he means to kiss her, but he stops centimeters from her mouth. The heat and pulse of his breath wafts past her parted lips, tickling her tongue. She exhales in a rush, frozen in place.

“No one receives an invitation to these parties, little mouse,” he whispers.

She intends to respond, her brain still tangled in flustered knots, but his hands fall away and he is gone. She inhales in dismay, beret of his strange warmth as she watches his back disappear in the throng of bodies. 

When she finally regains herself, she exits the dance floor in a rush, her head positively swimming. That’s when it hits her. The stranger had mentioned Hux as a business associate of his. This would mean he is connected to Dreadnought Industries. She had completely missed that part of their conversation, too floored by the fact that he knew her name. 

_Who is this guy?_

_And what the hell does he mean, no one receives invites to these things? Surely others at this party got some kind of invitation…_

Rey scans the room for him and catches a glimpse of a promising broad back with unruly dark hair vanishing through a set of double doors. She follows, careful not to betray herself as he descends a set of narrow stairs away from the chattering party-goers. Candelabras and knight-armored statues border the hallways, golden spears and another downward staircase, this one spiraling round and round until at last reaching a floor that pulses with dim synthetic light. 

Her senses instantly heighten as she breathes in the low thick banquet of new smells, anticipation and unease rolling through her gut while she watches his silhouette fade into the darkness. He is gone before she can catch him, vanishing through one of the many doors along the hall. Outfitting the walls are depictions of dark submission, open bodies and such salacious acts of debauchery that it makes someone such as her blush. She knows what this place is. Before ever coming down here, she had known. 

The skin at the back of her neck prickles and her nipples harden in excitement, her breathing short and unsteady as she slinks down the corridor after him. But he had not invited her down here… 

She needs to leave.

_Now._

She doesn’t even know the rules let alone if this is a private event, though she had been invited to the party, apparently the only person to receive an invitation. A part of her wonders idly if there are any rules down here. From the look of the paintings—a chill chases down her spine and the excitement laces with fear. 

“You shouldn’t be down here,” she mutters to herself. 

“No shit,” she argues back.

“Then leave.”

Coming to a halt, she presses her forehead to the icy wall, sweat percolating down her bare back and her mask pressing into her flesh. “Just leave,” she repeats to herself. “Just turn around and walk back up the stairs.”

From down the hall an unmistakable sound echoes behind one of the closed doors, the sound of a hand slapping flesh. Her ears literally perk up at the following wail.

All the fetish parties of the past she had visited were a precursor for this inevitable moment. And the truth is, it scares her. In her novels, she may have the courage to write such depravity, but in real life, the thought of going that deep down the rabbit hole frightens the holy hell out of her.

_Thwack!_

Another wail, this one thick and mewling. 

Her core pulses involuntarily, tongue working behind her teeth. 

She steps lighter across the carpeted floor, suddenly anxious that someone will catch her listening. She tries the first door. _Locked._ The next. Same. Frustration hastens her steps as she tries several more with a similar result, another cadence of slaps leaving her body vibrating excitedly. 

At last she finds a knob willing to give and pushes inside, peeking carefully around the door. The room is empty, small and full of shadows save for the scant glow coming from one of the walls. This wall happens to be a mirror— _like off those crime shows_ , she thinks. A one-way for people to look through, to watch the show. She inhales unsteadily at the realization and closes the door behind her.

Sounds echo from the other side, a quickening tempo of flesh hitting flesh as a chorus of lilting moans struggle to keep up. She draws closer to the mirror, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering through the gloom, only to be disappointed. The indistinguishable darkness makes it impossible to see anything.

“Please!” a woman’s voice begs.

Rey jumps, her heart thudding against her chest like a desperate bird and she swallows hard. The woman’s voice melts into incoherent drivel as Rey’s body presses against the mirror unconsciously, her breath moistening the glass in shallow huffs.

She wishes she could see something, anything, even a faint silhouette of movement. _Something._

Suddenly, an overhead light in the opposite room flicks on, illuminating the world in errie red. Rey nearly stumbles backward as she finds the woman’s naked form splayed out across a table, hands bound behind her back and a collar around her throat. The leash hooked to that collar happens to be wrapped securely in the gloved hand of a tall figure in a feathered mask. 

_There you are._ Her mind purrs.

The silver of his mask winks at Rey with each violent thrust and her core throbs in return, the scorching sensation sending wave after wave of heat throughout her body. The other woman bounces with his movements, her chest skidding roughly against the hard metal of the table and her legs spreading wider as he yanks viciously at her collar.

She keens and Rey finds a strangled sound of excitement leaving her own throat. The man in the eagle mask wracks the woman’s body hard, almost sending her over the table as he buries himself to the hilt and she screams. Rey watches with glassy eyes as he leans back and slaps her ass, making her call out and shudder uncontrollably.

Then, all at once Rey’s heart stops in her chest as the stranger’s head snaps up. Her breath lodges in her throat and she stands perfectly still, a cold breath of fear wafting down her back as she tells herself that it’s impossible for him to see her, but he keeps staring.

Rey feels her body burn with want and she wraps her arms at her waist, pulling uselessly at the fabric of her dress and wishing she had not come down here, that she had listened to her more rational side…

But her feet will not move.

 _He can’t see me. He can’t know I’m here._ She repeats to herself.

As if hearing her he pulls out, disengaging himself from the other woman and steps up to the mirror, mere inches from Rey. She takes in his unbuttoned vest and disheveled trousers hanging loosely from his hips. The sight of his powerfully hard cock, thick and glistening in the low light, causes her to tremble. He wraps his hand around it and pumps slowly, emitting a satisfied groan that makes Rey’s mouth go dry.

Then, never breaking eye-contact with her, he walks back to the woman, situating himself between her legs and starting again. He builds up a rhythm that soon leaves his partner shuddering violently in his hold, the leash pulled taut and her legs dangling aimlessly. Rey feels the wet heat of her arousal soaking her underwear as she rotates her hips dreamily in time with him, wishing herself on that uncomfortable table in that gaudy light. 

“Master! Oh master, please!” the woman wails.

He answers her in brutal succession, her orgasm utterly wrecking her and leaving her a teary-eyed mess. Rey feels her body clench with need and she falls back against the opposite wall, unconsciously drawing her hand over the sweltering heat of her cunt and rubbing the material there. The friction causes her to cry out and she instantly bites her tongue, freezing in horror. 

Before allowing herself another second of humiliation, she bolts from the room and scurries down the hallway, desperate to reach the world above. Unfortunately, her hope snuffs out when a hand latches onto her shoulder and pushes her through a nearby door. Rey turns hastily, biting into the unknown hand until her teeth hurt and a sharp grunt of pain follows. She tries to get a look at her attacker, but she a large body forces against a wall, the warmth of familiar cinnamon musk enveloping her. 

“Don’t do that,” a voice snarls, _his_ voice. “Unless you want me to repay you.”

She shivers as his breath tickles along her neck. “Who are you?” she demands.

“I can be the one to help you, Miss Pherapont. I can give you everything.”

The hand at her shoulder slips down her dress, sliding up under its hem at her thighs and testing the center strip of her panties. She cries out in surprise as the solid pressure of two fingers scrape the outline of her folds and her body curls instinctively into him. 

He hums approvingly, pressing harder as he feels evidence of her arousal. 

“No!” The word comes out broken from her lips. 

“No? Are you sure?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the bud of her sex.

Her body responds with insatiable heat and she propels her back against his chest hard, wriggling her hips as she does so, though she knows deep down it isn't to get away. His fingers apply pressure to the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex and her legs jerk, her head lolling onto his shoulder. He rotates and a low moan escapes her.

“Still no?” he breathes against her ear. 

Salvaging the last vestiges of her pride she glares back at him. “I don’t even know you!” she snaps.

The stranger smiles, a soft touch of color tainting his lips. “I’d like to change that.”

Rey stares at him bewildered, the tenderness of his voice discombobulating her as the fire in his eyes yields to a soft welcoming heat. She finds herself slipping, falling headfirst into his gaze. Recognition flickers through her mind again, though it passes as the softness in his eyes fades, replaced by the hard edge of animal need. Roughly spinning her around, he guides her to the only piece of furniture in the room. An unforgiving metal table.

“Sit and lie back,” he instructs.

Rey grips the table’s edge, refusing to obey him. “You knew I would come down here. You lured me.” she accuses.

He ignores her allegation. “Do not make me ask again.”

“What kind of game is this?”

His lips twitch. “Can’t you guess, little mouse?” 

Before she can reply he has her anchored to the table, one hand splayed over her chest and the other catching a wayward strike meant for his face. She hastily tries again with her other fist, but he catches that one, too. It’s those god awful hands of his, so _large_. 

“Let me go!” she grits out, teeth flashing.

He tilts his head to the side, the feathers of his mask glittering faintly. “You like this. Tell the truth... and shame the devil.” he jests. 

Rey sets her jaw, lifting her chin in defiance. “Go to hell.”

He laughs and releases her hands.

They fall limply to her sides and she lets them, a curious thrill weaving its way up her spine and making her nipples hard beneath the fabric of her dress. His response to her words makes her realize the absurdity of her reaction to this situation. How many times has she depicted a scene similar to this very moment in her writing?

And in all of those depictions, how did the submissive react?

But she is no submissive. Not entirely.

Without warning, she abruptly lashes out and deals a hard punch, hitting him across the cheek and sending his mask hurtling for the room's opposite wall. It clatters to the floor and she watches it spin to a stop, the silver veins hypnotic and flickering. Her eyes slowly drag back to the face of its wearer, and her jaw drops. 

A stream of blood paints down the cheek of none other than Kylo Ren, high ranking CEO of Dreadnought Industries and the host of this soirée. 

Rey’s mind short circuits and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. _Kylo Ren. This man is Kylo Ren._ She shakes her head in disbelief. 

“Such ill manners,” he says, wiping the blood from his cheek. “I should punish you for that.”

She opens her mouth to reply, still caught up in her shock, but his hand around her throat cuts her off and he steps between her legs, nudging them apart with his knee. For a breath, he pauses, holding her eyes as he reaches for her panties—no more than frail lace—and rips them aggressively from her hips. They fall in a ruined mess on the floor.

The initial press of his fingers to her naked cunt startles her and her legs jerk in response. He leans down to her ear, so tall and overshadowing. “Tell me to stop, or _be still_.” he murmurs.

Her heart hammers in her chest, unable to deny the delicious tingle of anticipation at his command. What will he do to her? The gossamer attempts at imagining such fantasies in her novels pale in comparison to this heart-throbbing reality.

 _Shame the devil_ , she thinks. _But what if the devil is right in front of me?_

His hand grasping her throat slides up to clamp over her mouth, filling her nostrils with the scent of leather. Then—he _slaps_ her, his free hand sending a jolt of electricity through her pussy. Once, twice, yanking her right knee further outward and doing it a third time, this one eliciting a luxurious moan deep from her chest. She stares up at him in astonishment.

_Did he really just—?_

“That’s my girl.” Kylo purrs, the slanted light casting his dark eyes in maroon and honey. 

Rey attempts to speak, but all she can taste is leather.

He leans down, inhaling her neck. “You smell like your sheets, but better. You know I hate your apartment. It’s too prim for someone like you. But your work desk…” he hesitates to nibble at her pulse point until she quivers, “such a messy place. You get wet just writing about situations like this. I know.” 

A blush suffuses her cheeks as understanding dawns upon her. 

_This man has been in my apartment, been through my things and apparently_ sniffed _my chair?!_

Her heart hits a gallop as she recounts the long nights she would sit in nothing but a button-down blouse, dreaming up scene after scene of debauchery. The hot stick of the faux leather of her chair against her cunt as she rose to dig her _toy_ out of her bedroom and pleasure herself until she screamed. He _knew_. Equally as disturbing is her body's reaction to this knowledge. Heat on top of heat. What the hell kind of man breaks into a woman’s apartment, rifles through her belongings and deliberately samples her chair for the frail scent of her arousal?

_A stalker._

_Or a serial killer._

This is definitely her cue to run, to claw out his eyes and hit the door, escape from this house of sin and burn out down the street. Go back to the safety of her home and her desk and her stories. Safe. Known. 

_But this..._

Kylo slips an index finger through her folds, tracing her slick over the sensitive bud of her sex and she shimmies her hips instinctively, her body calling for him to relieve the pressure building below her navel, yet he refuses, choosing instead to continue with his confession. “I wanted to catch you one day unaware, throw you over the desk, rip your hair back”—he yanks at her scalp for emphasis and she gasps, breathing through her nose—“and fuck you raw.” 

The filth of his words summons fresh slick down her cunt and she pushes her chin against the hand still clamped over her mouth. In response, he leans back and deals her pussy one final slap. She keens loudly, eyes rolling back and fingers digging into the dress sleeve of his arm as a fresh wave of desire sets her ablaze. He grins, his full mouth positively devilish in the gloom. 

In one final ditch attempt, her mind tries to convince her to fight, to break free and run. This is not one of her novels. Nor is she on the other side of the glass witnessing the woman in this man’s arms. _No._ This is real and this is happening right now to _her_.

Nevertheless, Rey locks eyes with Kylo Ren and dares him on.

Removing his hand from her face, her mask askew, he cups one of her breasts and brings his mouth just shy of hers. She breathes in his sigh and her toes curl as he plunges one gloved finger inside of her, circling, then pulling out. Bringing it to his lips, he licks her arousal clean, watching her intently as he does. The smell of her encircles them and she observes him lower his finger to dip it inside her once more, this time twirling and hooking it in a place that makes her whine. 

Desperate for his mouth, she leans up to unconsciously though he stops her.

“Tonight is only a tease,” he croons. 

She scowls, petulantly inquiring, “Part of your game?”

He merely nuzzles her cheek, never answering her question.

Rey bulks, ready to scathe him with a blistering retort when he hooks his finger again, presently adding a firm pinch to her nipple and leaving her speechless. She gapes up at him as he rotates the digit, slow at first, then faster and faster, pressing his thumb to the throbbing bud of her cunt and making her squirm. A shameful yelp escapes her when he removes his finger only to insert a second and yanks her dress high up her waist to expose her breasts.

The second his mouth captures the aching pink flesh she screams, her back arching off the table as he pistons his fingers in and out, curling and twisting and tapping that spot inside that makes her lose control. It builds rapidly—the _pleasure_ —too quickly for her to keep up, in fact, and she reaches for his shoulders, clinging to him, burying her hands in his hair, yanking and kneading like a drowning kitten. 

“I—I—”

But the words won’t form. They flitter around the back of her mind like frenzied birds bereft of logic, so she clutches to the only thing anchoring her to reality. _Him._ Kylo Ren stares down at her with those black eyes, silhouetted in the salacious light like a hell-born god and she comes hard, her body spasming violently around his fingers and her mind blanking out. He drinks in the aftermath of her orgasm with an encouraging purr, brushing a sweaty tendril of hair from her forehead.

“That’s my girl, my Rey.”

She blinks, dazed. 

_‘He wrecked her like Jupiter and she relished being destroyed by him.’_

The line comes out of nowhere and she hastily grasps it before it fades from her thoughts, locking it away for a later time perhaps… when she is sitting at her _messy_ desk, hacking away at her keyboard and thinking of him. 

.

☸

☽ ♛ ☾ 

☸

.

As Rey leaves the mansion, legs still shaky and body thrumming with the desire for his arms again, she looks back. _This is only the beginning of his game_ , she knows. _I’m going to Hell._

Though, it’s only after she gets home, too exhausted to take a shower and, truth be told, unwilling to wash his musk off of her skin that she realizes something. 

He had called her by her real name.

#  _~ THE END ~_


End file.
